From Aug 28 and Sept 10 2011

From August 28 2011

The roof of the Apthorp building in the sun—
Seen from Columbus Circle, the rounded mansard rooftops,
Like domes of a cathedral, the renaissance, [Venetian Atlantis],
As if the sky were sunlit water, the Apthorp drowned.
What must it cost to rent, or even buy.
So what that Zabar’s was a tourist trap.
To the Plaza you can walk from this corner.
This is what is called a hot corner.
A tall, gaunt man in 1982 was practicing
Electric bass by the subway stop,
Picking out the tune to If you could read my mind—
But stopped on what a tale my thoughts could tell.
You can walk to the Plaza through Central Park,
Dodging the horse-drawn carriages and taxis,
In the year after the same man had lost his bass.
He swayed on the same spot, a change-cup in his hand.
Nothing happened much in the field of music.
You must witness how those rooftops shined
After the last rain, through the mist the sun is parting,
The curved pastels of slate or copper flashing,
The caryatids holding storeys up, the Moorish ornament,
How Venuice fused with the East, all that Apthorp improted,
Unaffordable on normal salaries, except for the view.

From September 10 2011

As the fall sun peeks through the slats of my bamboo roll-up blind—
As the crickets pause and the traffic resounds in longer intervals
And the garden bed dries, full-grown stalks of grass and pokeweed
Leaning into the direction of the withered tomato vines,
As nothing happens new under the shining of the sun in the yard,
The other side shady, the sun-dried currents of air running through
The attic, aerating the rafters, aerating the over-crowded vegetable garden
One man could not live upon if his life depended upon it.